


A Halo in Reverse

by AdelaCathcart



Series: Violators [1]
Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Adultery, Angst and Romance, Aristocracy, Dubcon Kissing, F/M, Foreshadowing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Marisa is a mermaid, Pre-Canon, making honest feelings do dishonest work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22279147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaCathcart/pseuds/AdelaCathcart
Summary: “Of course the high-born will always do just as they like, and damn the consequences and the carnage you leave behind. I suppose a politician’s marriage means nothing to you, to say nothing of my future or my peace of mind. Do you take me for some common slut you might use or discard at a whim? Did you think for even a moment what might become of me if he knew that we were—that I was—““That we’re in love,” he finishes for her, utterly fearless in the light of truth.She’s looking at the floor now, her expression wild and unreadable, but her eyes show the whites all around. She might be outraged. She might be—and he would guess this is rare for her—speechless. The monkey withdraws from the leopard’s embrace and the woman lifts him to her shoulder where he smooths her hair with his little black hands, comforting her. Her eyes shine like quicksilver as she mouths, “In love?”“Yes, of course, in love. What would you call it?”“Impossible.”
Relationships: Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter
Series: Violators [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610350
Comments: 13
Kudos: 45





	A Halo in Reverse

**Author's Note:**

> "A shudder in the loins engenders there  
> The broken wall, the burning roof and tower  
> And Agamemnon dead."  
> —William Butler Yeats, "Leda and the Swan"
> 
> "In the game of hearts, though a woman be winner,  
>  The odds are ever against her, you know;  
> The world is ready to call her a sinner,  
>  And man is ready to make her so."  
> —Ella Wheeler Wilcox, "A Married Coquette"
> 
> "He told you not to tell me about it, didn't he? Yes, I can see. Well, never mind, darling, because you didn't tell me, did you? So you haven't broken any promises." — _The Golden Compass/Northern Lights_

By the end of their first conversation it was frankly embarrassing how their dæmons strained towards each other. Of course there was physical attraction, so strong it was almost violence, but more alluring still were the tantalizing glimpses this parlor talk offered of a sympathetic mind, like a manuscript long thought apocryphal, then miraculously discovered intact. Allowed to develop unobstructed, their mutual fascination could only become indecent, and after all they were in a public place. To obscure the charged atmosphere between them, the man and woman resorted to open hostility, which was easy because she seemed to intuit immediately how to antagonize him, so that it looked for all the world like Stelmaria desperately wanted to cuff the little monkey before he spat at her, and not to clasp him to her soft breast and never let him go. But Asriel could never abide a pretense for long, and when he grew restless and let a particularly barbed comment slip, a look of such injury spread like an ink stain across her angelic face, she fell silent and looked away, and he thought he must surely have misjudged her. She was so young, and probably quite innocent. He reached out lightly to touch her forearm.

“Forgive me,” he said, “That was unnecessarily harsh.”

“It’s quite all right,” she whispered, her smile tight. “I’m sure you’re capable of much worse.” She laid her cool hand over his, crooking her middle finger under his thumb where no one else would see, to caress the hollow of his palm with shocking lasciviousness. She was blinking away crocodile tears, but her face was flushed with triumph as she gathered her things.

“Stay and find out,” he challenged her, but she shook her head sadly, tucking a stray blond curl behind her ear.

That was when he first saw her wedding band.

Now Asriel is flummoxed. Rarely has he encountered a problem he can’t tackle on the spot, much less one his station and his genius won’t effortlessly dissolve. Intrigue makes him irritable, and this is so messy he gets exhausted just thinking about it. He's not even sure of her name, he never thought to ask, but the name of the bottomless crevasse she opened in him when they met, into which he now finds himself slipping—that he knows all too well. It's a shameful waste of energy, to be robbed of focus, of sleep, of even his appetite, by a woman he can't actually pursue. A hundred times he resolves to put her out of his mind, in vain: her mellow voice still echoes in his ears, the hope of making her smile haunts his thoughts, and every phantom glimpse of fair hair hits him like an anbaric current, and soon in spite of himself he’s plotting how he’ll see her again. Thorold assumes he's sick, and he’s not wrong.

A week later there’s a party at a duke’s penthouse in London, and Asriel lets himself be lured away from his already neglected work by the promise of a little stimulating company. As ever, his former classmates lift his spirits, and a few of them have attained rather enviable positions in politics since he saw them last, which they're eager to confer with him about. He's barely out of the lift before a footman is taking his navy greatcoat, and he finds a snifter of brantwijn pressed into his hand. He doesn't even get a look around the apartment. In a minute they've got him in an armchair frying poppy heads over a brazier, holding forth about the limited understanding of even the most basic church doctrine among the senior cabinet ministers pushing for theocratic reform while Stelmaria reclines by the fender. The sound of his own sardonic monologue, his friends' laughter, the rich salty poppy smoke make him feel like he's back at Jordan, an ambitious young scholar with no concern more urgent than nursing the chip on his shoulder. Still, he hasn’t been there half an hour before he realizes he’s made a serious mistake. A column of glimmering silver has swum into his peripheral vision, and hangs there swaying for a moment before it resolves into the elegant form of a girl with a golden monkey perched on her shoulder. It might as well be a live wire.

She makes him edgy so he decides to ignore her, although Stelmaria subtly tracks the monkey’s movements like the predator she is, reminding him not to be childish. Through his dæmon's acute senses he knows the woman hasn't seen him but she's never far, and her presence is like an itch he can't scratch. She's on her husband's arm and Asriel recognizes the man, Coulter, a well-established member of the King's advisory body, not an enemy but far from a friend. He loses focus and allows someone else to dominate the lively discussion. Suddenly the lavish apartment is far too small, the soft naphtha lamplight unbearably close, the air too smoky, his friends' high good humor is strident noise, and he urgently needs to stretch his legs. He gulps the last of his brantwijn and excuses himself mildly, then dodges the footman and slips into the hall closet to retrieve his own coat, wanting to be off with minimal fanfare, already anticipating with pleasure the cold night air awaiting him outside. 

“Lord Asriel,” says a voice behind him, low and musical.

“Mrs. Coulter,” he answers courteously, but before he can finish the words she flows into his arms.

“Don’t speak,” she whispers, “Only tell me whether—I must be mad—yes, I know that this is madness, and yet I—since we met, I’ve thought of little else—and now, to find you here—oh, please don’t think me foolish, it’s only that I never—never in my life—never—“

Her wavering voice has skidded out of control, and he ducks to hush her whimper with a kiss, but she turns her face daintily aside so his mouth hits her smooth cheek. She’s panting like a hare against his ear, her lips press together as if she’s in pain, and whether it’s playacting or real or the sort of play that’s needed when the truth cannot be borne, the agony in her expression is undeniably in him, too. Every place their bodies touch burns like live charcoal, and where they don’t touch the pain is even worse. Her monkey dæmon is reaching out piteously for his. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her cruelly.

For a moment she stiffens, resisting, and not for the last time he wonders what on earth she’d expected to happen if not this, but then her mouth opens languorously and she outmaneuvers him again. Her slender arms twine around his neck like kelp fronds, her lips are sealed to his as if they’ll never breathe again, and as she draws them deeper into the murky forest of hanging cloaks and scarves he has the impression that a mermaid is dragging him to her grotto to drown. In her embrace he would gladly sink to the bottom of the sea and beyond, would fall forever.

The long, sinuous strokes of her tongue over his make it difficult to pull out of the kiss, but he wants more of her, opening wide to mouth her delicate chin, teeth grazing her jawbone and tugging at her ear. He tastes violet in her finishing powder, neroli and aldehyde from her perfume, hot copper in the fine skin of her throat, and at her hairline pure sex. Her breath comes out in high soft moans and her hands are in his hair, encouraging him. He hooks a finger under the high collar of her gown to suck luxuriously at her neck, and she gives a little grunt of distress and tries to pull away. Not to be balked, he holds her tighter and sucks harder.

“Please,” she says, pressing at his shoulders. “Oh, carefully, please—if you leave a mark, he might see it, and—“

“Who? Edward Coulter? A minor advisor, probably past his prime, and not even a peer. He can’t do a thing to me. He wouldn’t dare.”

The look of scorn she gives him then is cold poison, a mouthful of bitter ocean water. “For a brilliant man you’re remarkably thick-headed.” She tears herself from him and he notices Stelmaria posed sphinx-like and radiating disappointment with the monkey hissing between her paws. “Of course the high-born will always do just as they like, and damn the consequences and the carnage you leave behind. I suppose a politician’s marriage means nothing to you, to say nothing of my future or my peace of mind. Do you take me for some common slut you might use or discard at a whim? Did you think for even a moment what might become of me if he knew that we were—that I was—“

“That we’re in love,” he finishes for her, utterly fearless in the light of truth.

She’s looking at the floor now, staggering back, her expression wild and unreadable, but her eyes show the whites all around. She might be outraged. She might be—and he would guess this is rare for her—speechless. The monkey withdraws from the leopard’s embrace and the woman lifts him to her shoulder where he smooths her hair with his little black hands, comforting her. Her eyes shine like quicksilver as she mouths, “In love?”

“Yes, of course, in love. What would you call it?”

“Impossible.”

He takes a step towards her, supremely confident, ignoring the malevolence of the tiny black face by her ear. The monkey scrambles down again and crouches just out of sight by the door, his face a mask of wicked cunning. Asriel can’t help but smirk. “I don’t believe I know that word.”

“I shall have to teach it to you.”

“Teach me anything you like.”

His courtesy seems to placate her a little. To show he means no harm he gently strokes her cheek, and she hesitates, still frowning, but then sighs and rubs her open mouth against his palm, hot breath shooting down his sleeve, and then falls back into his open arms. Grinning, he returns his attention to her neck, tugging at the rhinestone shank buttons that trail from her nape to her tailbone. They open for him, one by one, exposing a path he moves behind her to trace with his mouth over her bared shoulders, her shoulder blades, her spine.

“This dress is borrowed, not too rough on the buttons,” she murmurs, guiding his hands to her front.

“I’ll buy it for you.”

“Must you be so reckless? It’s infuriating.” She hunches her shoulders to slacken the bodice of her gown so he can palm her naked breasts. He strokes them obligingly, groaning open-mouthed into the top of her head. Her back arches, grinding his hips into hers, and the diaphanous gown and gabardine trousers between them are nothing more than props in a farce. In a world whose law was truth he would already be inside her. Her head lolls against his shoulder and her voice is breathy and shameless. “Keep doing that and you’re going to get somebody killed—”

She freezes in his arms and he realizes the monkey’s seen something. Swiftly she reaches over Asriel's head to grab a big silver fox fur and sling it over her exposed back, shoving him brusquely aside, because a man’s voice is calling her name.

“Yes, I’m here, Edward, sorry, I can’t seem to find my gloves…”

“Marisa, dear, I’m dead on my feet and I’ve said all my goodbyes. I’ll wait for you in the car, all right?”

Without so much as a look of regret she follows her husband into the hall, and the words of her mellifluous response are obscured by the din outside. Asriel hangs back, for propriety’s sake and certainly not in case she decides to return, but after a moment a footman comes poking around anyway and he’s forced to bluster, “All these damn coats look the same. Ah, this one’s mine. Excuse me,” and lurch wrongfooted out of the closet and into the duke himself, who chides him for trying to sneak away without a word, then insists on dragging him back into the sitting room for a little more poppy and a pipe of smokeleaf. All the more restless for being railroaded, Asriel accepts a bit of each, then makes a transparently opiated excuse about sled dog training of all things, and offers his host a farewell in a form so flawlessly correct that the duke can do nothing but wish him goodnight. At last Asriel finds himself alone in the dimly lit hallway, just in time to spy spun gold and fox fur shimmering like a mirage in the empty lift. He goes in after her, slams the gate shut and pulls the lever.

“Leave me alone,” she pleads once he has her cornered. He wants to grab her by her sleek chignon and yank her head back to expose her beautiful throat. He wants to do them both a favor and rape her right here in the lift. “Please, if you have any decency at all…”

“You can’t love him,” he scoffs. A lash of Stelmaria’s tail against his leg warns him not to be petulant.

“Love him? What could you know about it? Of course I love him.” Those big tears are shining in her lovely eyes. He could almost pity her. He wants to.

“Liar,” he says instead.

She slaps him. He can’t conceal his flinch. He moves closer, boxing her in with his body so she can’t hit him again, his voice low and urgent in her ear. The scent of her hair is positively obscene.

“When can I see you?”

“You can’t. You mustn’t. Think of my position, of what you’re asking me to risk.”

“Come on, Marisa, prudence doesn’t suit you,” he insists, trying the name on his tongue. “If he questions you, just say you couldn’t stop me. It won’t even be untrue.” Every one of his senses confirms the effect of this remark on her. She even smells hotter. Is it the dominance of it she responds to, or the duplicity? A subject deserving of further study, Stelmaria thinks to him wryly, until the monkey senses their distraction and jealously claws her in the eyes. Asriel grasps Marisa firmly by the jaw and kisses her for all he’s worth, until their dæmons are swooning in each other’s arms, and the one will directing the four of them is his alone.

“Forget me,” she sobs, a vision of immiserated virtue, pale eyelashes wetly downcast.

“Never. Impossible. Surely you realize that.”

To her credit, she doesn't gloat.

A low, gummy moan comes out of her. She searches his eyes. He can almost feel tiny black hands rummaging viciously through the contents of his soul, and he welcomes them—he has nothing to fear from the truth. In fact his dæmon has hers by the throat. The monkey offers no resistance, and Stelmaria is huffing eagerly through her bared teeth.

The lift bell sounds. The doors begin to open. The monkey clambers to his woman’s arms, fluffing his dampened fur a little scornfully. She’s poised like a deer, ready to escape, and he will let her.

“Saint Ivo’s, then. Tomorrow at matins,” she whispers quickly, and she’s gone.

Asriel laughs long and loud, like a man with the world at his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> "Halo" by Depeche Mode: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEH4eqtK8SU


End file.
